


Care to Dance

by theparanoidandroid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Dance, Fluff and Humor, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Requited Love, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparanoidandroid/pseuds/theparanoidandroid
Summary: 1. Bradley-Martin Ball (New York, 1897)2. Les Noces Opening Night (Paris, 1923)3. La Bal Oriental (Venice, 1951)4. Black and White Ball (New York, 1966)5. Surrealist Ball (Paris, 1972)- or -Four times Crowley and Aziraphale are denied a dance, and one time they aren't.





	Care to Dance

_The Bradley-Martin Ball, New York City, 1897_

News of the event brought mixed reactions. Most of the public were eager to attend, and chattered excitedly amongst themselves in groups, while others, in groups of their own, did exactly the opposite. The whole thing was turning into something of a scandal, and so of course Crowley couldn’t resist attending the affair. 

Four hundred thousand dollars, just to look, dine, and dance like royalty. Crowley knew he would enjoy himself. He’d went to all the trouble of miracling himself up an outfit, anyway. There was no going back now.

(Ah, American money… Sometimes, Crowley regretted persuading the British that, no, they hadn’t _needed_ decimalized currency. Too complicated, he’d told them. That had gotten him a few good laughs Downstairs, and one of a handful of commendations, but keeping up with humanity’s random, impulsive decisions was exhausting. After that night in New York, there would be almost fifty years before England decided to make a change to its currency system.)

Thirty minutes after waltzing through the golden entrance to the Waldorf Hotel, Crowley found himself standing off on the sidelines, sipping on a glass of red wine he’d nabbed from a waiter’s tray. He was dressed head to toe in red and black, all lace and satin and hints of gold. He couldn’t risk much else, because while it was true that clothes were just clothes, Crowley didn’t want to run into any of his colleagues by accident, and be caught in something that was anything but dark and gloomy. There would be rumors.

Just as Crowley was beginning to wonder if this was where he should begin causing a spot of mischief to avoid any complaints from head office, a bright and curious voice interrupted his thoughts. Crowley wasn’t sure if he should have felt pleasantly surprised and relieved it wasn’t a coworker, or disgruntled and disturbed to be in the sudden, unexpected company of the enemy.

Well. “Enemy,” used loosely. The angel wasn’t much of a rival, anymore.

“Crowley? Is that you?” said Aziraphale’s voice, and the serpent turned to face it. Dressed in whites and blues and golds, Aziraphale certainly looked the part of an angel. 

“Angel.” He smiled at him. It was difficult to sound enthusiastic, with his ever-sarcastic tone of voice, but, despite the way it came off, the greeting was genuine. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.” The angel of the Eastern Gate looked him up and down. He sounded surprised. “Victorian Goth. Suits you.”

Crowley huffed. The shades over his eyes were already quite large on his face, but not quite large enough to cover the faded shade of pink the angel’s comment made him turn. As an unfortunate addition, his cheekbones were already so sharp, most sunglasses didn’t fit him properly to begin with. Most of them had to be miracled into existence.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” said the serpent, and it was true. "This evening's been the talk of the town for a solid month. They're calling it 'tacky,' and 'undignified,' last I heard, I think. Going to a party like this one... Doesn’t seem like your scene, does it?”

“I couldn’t just ignore the gossip.” Aziraphale sniffed, flustered. He straightened his waistcoat, slightly rattled. “My superiors simply wanted me to spectate, anyway. Watch for Evil Forces and such.”

“Like me.” smirked Crowley.

Aziraphale flushed. “It’s not a big deal!” He said, exasperated. “Just an odd job. And, besides, Mrs Bradley-Martin is quite the character. She wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best wines for her party, I knew that much.” He turned his eyes on the snake. “Why are you here, then?”

Crowley shrugged half-heartedly. “Needed a break. Told Downstairs I’d pull a few tricks this evening, to get them off my back and all that. I’ve had enough of the priest-tempting and the politician-corrupting for a good year, I think.”

Aziraphale beamed. “I’m glad to see--”

“Don’t you dare.”

The angel deflated with a pout. “Oh, well, alright then. But know I’m proud of you.”

Underneath huge black shades, Crowley rolled reptilian eyes. When the angel’s eyes were away from him, he smiled. After their last meeting in St James’ Park, he’d expected something a bit more _stiff._ Aziraphale clearly hadn’t been very pleased with him. But he was back again, and the two of them had reunited. Things seemed back to normal, and that was all the demon could have asked for.

How little he knew.

As they settled into silence, watching the party go on, masses of guests began to gravitate towards the dance floor, and the band began to play just a touch louder. The representatives of Heaven and Hell remained off to the side, observing the countless elaborate costumes and the many smiling faces. Those who had chosen not to come, for fear of losing their reputation to the whispering campaign, were certainly missing out. Crowley leaned over to the angel, pointing out the many disguises the guests had chosen.

“You said you knew Mrs Bradley-Martin, didn’t you? Never met her.” Crowley prompted, casually, and the angel broke into a shameless smile.

He nodded, pointing across the dance floor at a woman in an impressive gown and even more so impressive wig. “Charming lady, really. There she is, the one dressed as Mary, the Queen of Scots. Sixty thousand dollar gown, you know. Oh, and there’s Catherine the Great, and I think that’s...”

Crowley contentedly listened to the enemy ramble affectionately about the personalities attending the ball with a half-smile on his face for quite some time. Aziraphale didn’t even seem to be taking a breath between sentences. Not that he needed to, of course.

“...and I do believe she’s come as Pocahontas, what a lovely costume.” Aziraphale waved cheerfully to the guest in question with the usual grin. He might as well have known everyone.

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. After standing around for so long, he was itching to get moving, or to cause some mischief. Nothing too big, obviously. Just a bit of fun. He turned to the angel, who was still smiling at the dance floor swimming with happy, carefree attendees. The whole ordeal was to celebrate freedom and liberty, after all, and a future full of prosperity.

“Care to dance, Angel?” asked Crowley, and Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to him, astonished by the suggestion.

“Dance?” He repeated, alarmed. “Now? Here?”

“Where else?”

“But… But what about…?” Aziraphale tilted his head vaguely upwards, and Crowley groaned.

“I’m in costume, aren’t I?” He insisted. “Besides, it’s only for fun.”

“You know _costumes_ won’t make an ounce of a difference to _Them.”_

“Come on.” complained the serpent. “Or don’t you _want_ to dance?”

Aziraphale looked pained. He leaned closer, voice both hushed and strained. “Look, Crowley-- even if I wanted to dance with you, how do you think the _guests_ would react?”

“What do you--” Crowley’s eyes narrowed. _”Oh.”_

The angel gave him a weak smile. “I can’t afford to get my superiors upset with me. Neither of us can.” His voice was no higher than a whisper now, but that didn’t matter. “Please don’t tempt me into this, Crowley. I _can’t.”_

Crowley’s heart sank, but he was quick to recover, standing up straight and nodding ahead. “Okay. S’fine. Forget I said anything.”

“Crowley--”

“It’s okay. Perfectly okay. So, about that Bradley-Martin lady…”

As the ball bled into the early hours of the morning, and the guests were still going strong, the angel and the demon spent the rest of the extravagant party with a foreign ache in their chest that neither of them could quite identify.

 

_Opening Night of Ballet Russes’ Les Noces, Paris, 1923_

When Aziraphale had heard the words “ballet afterparty,” this hadn’t been what he’d expected. Most people probably would have been pleasantly surprised, but Aziraphale had grown to rather enjoy peace and quiet. This was not at all peaceful, nor was it in the least bit quiet. Eventually, Aziraphale had found himself migrating to the far corner of the ship’s deck, eager to get away from the raging noise of the party and drink in peace. He had wished to talk to some of the choreographers of the show, but there was no chance of that now.

His eyes scanned the deck briefly, and widened in surprise.

When Aziraphale had heard the words “ballet afterparty,” he definitely hadn’t expected any of it to involve Crowley, of all people. But there he was, dressed in a fashionable black tux (was that satin? Oh, the flash bastard-- not Aziraphale’s words), making small talk with the playwright, Igor Stravinsky. The angel supposed he shouldn’t have been shocked. He’d probably been sent here for the same reasons as him. More or less.

When Aziraphale narrowed his eyes until he caught sight of the strange black aura hovering over the serpent, Crowley turned his head, smiled and waved at him from across the barge-turned-cruise ship. He gave him a polite smile in return, and nodded, and Crowley took this as an opportunity to invite himself over, excusing himself from his conversation with Stravinsky.

“Look who it is,” greeted the demon, sauntering over with the familiar carefree swagger. He glanced over his shoulder, shades slipping down, and before he could push them back up the bridge of his nose Aziraphale caught a glimpse of nervous yellow eyes. Crowley plowed onward. “Enjoy the ballet, did you? Was a bit dull, if you ask me. There aren’t any funny ones.”

Aziraphale straightened himself out. “I quite liked it.”

“Huh. Glad someone did.”

“Well, this party is anything but dull,” The angel sighed, looking around them. “So you must be enjoying yourself now.”

“Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley’s grin shone underneath the lights. “You _are_ enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Angel? Look at this place. Haven’t seen the humans throw a party as impressive as this in decades.”

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it, though?” sighed Aziraphale, and the two of them surveyed the dance floor, Crowley openly admiring the decor and Aziraphale quietly admiring the many elegant outfits and costumes the guests had selected.

“Yes, I rather think that’s the point.” Crowley remarked, taking a sip of his drink. Red wine, as per usual. Aziraphale didn’t know what else he should have expected. Some things never changed.

“I’m just not a fan of parties, I suppose,” said the angel. “But I have to admit, Mr and Mrs Murphy did a wonderful job with these decorations-- did you see those two in _Tender is the Night?_ I heard Mrs Murphy made them herself. Bouquets are difficult to get on Sundays, anyways, and it’s ever so inspiring to see what she took some creative liberty with oh my Lord that’s Picasso.”

Amused, Crowley followed the angel’s shaking finger and laughed. Sure enough, the famous artist himself was knelt over an impressive display of many intricate and beautiful centerpieces, and was moving them about like children’s toys with an eager, toothy smile. “So it is.”

“What’s that he’s doing?”

“Er, well… You see...” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck like a flustered teenager. “I may have… possibly… tempted-Picasso-into-rearranging-the-setpieces.”

Aziraphale looked absolutely mortified. “You did _what?”_

At the angel’s reaction, Crowley's guilt turned into satisfaction. He tossed his shoulders. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Crowley, _work_ was put into those!”

“Hey, _work_ was what I put into the invention of _credit_ and the _stock market,_ and look where _that’s_ gotten me.” snapped Crowley. “Keep tellin’ ‘em back at head office, ‘Oh, sure they like it now, but it’ll come crashing down on them eventually, you just have to give it time, you know, wait for them to get ahead of themselves. They’re bound to muck it up at some point,’ but _no…”_

(Had Crowley known that in six years, he would receive a commendation shortly after the Stock Market Crash of 1929 for the invention of both the stock market _and_ credit, he probably would have been eating his words.)

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, still nervously watching Picasso sneak the evening’s centerpieces into different locations as he took a sip of champagne. “Why are you here this time, anyway?” He asked Crowley. “Ballets aren’t your thing. You like Broadway.”

“Ah, well. I’m sort of on security duty tonight.” said Crowley with a dramatic roll of his eyes underneath his glasses. “It’s a wild night. Big guys Downstairs thought They could get some interesting stories out of it. Beez’ has been ranting about _Original Sin_ lately, says we need to get our act together if we want to get stronger. I couldn’t care less, really. Others with my rank have all been scrambling to get promoted. Honestly, I don’t know what the fuss is about, but They want me to be involved.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly in acknowledgement. Crowley was The Serpent, after all. Responsible for the birth of Sin. It made sense why Hell had chosen him as Their representative, in terms of power, strength, and capability-- but in terms of work ethic, They had picked Their worst option possible. Crowley lived to bend the rules, to disobey the top dogs.

Aziraphale would have said he understood, but he didn’t much want to have _that_ conversation with the higher-ups in his department later on, so he ignored it.

“So, what… They’re hoping to get the guests drunk?”

“Not hoping.” Crowley said, bluntly. He gestured briefly at the rest of the deck. “They’ve done it.”

“And then what?”

“Seeing who They can condemn, I suppose. The usual.”

Aziraphale blanched. “How terrible. Why, that’s practically cheating!”

“Angel, _cheating_ is the least of Hell’s concerns, I can tell you that much.” Crowley snorted, the taste of wine flooding his sinuses.

“And you’re not going to join them?”

Crowley gave him an irritated side-eye, before settling on a bloodcurdling, “No.”

Aziraphale’s face brightened, if that was even impossible. “Oh, dear, that’s really rather ni--”

The demon interrupted him with an ostentatious, outwards gesture with his hand that sent the cousin of a prince flying over the side of ship, plummeting to the water below with a scream that was lost to the noise of the dance. Aziraphale gazed after him, horrified, and looked back at Crowley, who gave him a friendly, charming, serpentine smile.

Aziraphale huffed and waved a surreptitious wave of his own hand, miracling a life raft out of thin air and tossing it over the side. Crowley laughed, finishing off his wine, turning to watch the party fondly. He folded his glasses and stuck them in the pocket of his tux, avoiding disturbing the line.

The angel smiled. Crowley’s eyes glowed yellow underneath the hood of the deck as the band was beginning to play again, and the crowd let out a gleeful whoop.

Aziraphale thought back to 1897, at the Bradley-Martin Ball. He wasn’t here under supervision this time. Crowley had made the offer last time.

However, before Aziraphale could open his mouth, both the angel and the demon’s attention were drawn to a man running around the ship deck. He wore the attire of the ship’s captain, but even from a distance the angel recognized the man as Jean Cocteau, the director of many well-known films at the time. Crowley slowly lifted his glasses back up to his face.

“Sinking! The barge is sinking!” cried the drunken filmmaker, in French. “Everyone! The ship is sinking! Please!”

Crowley gave an irritable groan as the crowd went up in a chorus of screams. “Oh, Heaven above and me below, it’s _not_ sinking. I bet this is one of my guys’ doing.”

He looked at the angel of the Eastern Gate, who was still struggling for words.

“Bugger.” He sighed. “Well, it’s always a pleasure seeing you, Angel. I had better go. No use having _Hastur_ or someone show up and see me making small talk with a Principality.”

Aziraphale stammered. “Y-Yes, of course. Nice seeing you. Crowley, I…”

The snake had slithered away into the crowds of screaming, hooting Personalities.

Aziraphale sighed in defeat. The dance would have to wait.

 

_La Bal Oriental, Venice, 1951_

Aziraphale had charged into the Palazzo Labia with a mission. The wait for a simple dance had gone on for too long, and where better to dance than at the proclaimed party of the century? He had downed two glasses of champagne and put the h’orderves practically out of business waiting for some sign of the serpent, but he never showed. 

Crowley had been caught up in a meeting, and was at that point being reprimanded for getting too chatty with humanity. It wasn’t right, they told him.

Eventually, once again defeated, the angel of the Eastern Gate departed with a weight in his chest.

 

_Black and White Ball, New York City, 1966_

Aziraphale was thrilled. “Crowley!”

“Aziraphale!” said Crowley, mimicking his tone as he took his drink -- champagne, this time -- from the bartender. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know.”

The usual, quite literally devilish smirk. “That bad, eh?”

The both of them had followed the dress code, just in opposite ways. Crowley, unsurprisingly, had come entirely in black, in a slim-fit suit, and a sleek tie. Aziraphale had come dressed all in white, with a silver bow tie and an off-white vest underneath a blazer of the same color. Not only did they look the part of an angel and a demon, they also looked like two spies made for television, constantly thinking up schemes to thwart the other’s plans.

Ironically, that had sort of been the expectation in the Beginning. That had certainly gone down like a lead balloon.

It was, however, a bit on the nose, that Crowley had made the decision to wear a black masquerade with horns curling outward at the top, while Aziraphale had chosen to wear a Phantom of the Opera-esque half-mask, all white, with a lopsided halo arranged around his head.

“Tonight’s been a blast. I think I much prefer New York to Paris.” said Aziraphale brightly, and Crowley shrugged.

“A party’s a party.” He said, took a thoughtful drink. “Chatted with Frank Sinatra and Gloria Vanderbilt for a bit tonight. What people. You know Andy Warhol’s here?”

“Is that right?” Aziraphale beamed. “I’ll have to see him later. I do love his work.”

“I know. Not a very pleasant guy, though. He'll be one of ours by the end of the century.”

They relaxed into peaceful silence for a few long moments. Aziraphale stared at his hands.

“You know, I heard they’re arranging a date.” said Crowley, conversationally. “For the… the Big Day.”

Aziraphale shot up on his barstool, stared at him. “What? When? Where?”

“Dunno.” sighed Crowley, leaning on the bar with an arm. “They won’t tell me anything. They’re just saying to ‘keep an ear out.’ Bullshit.”

The angel gave a pained groan, took a gulp of alcohol. “I’m here because They at the office wanted a meeting with me. They’re late, and far too late to be fashionably so. I’m starting to think They’ve forgotten about me.”

“Or one of my Side is here,” said Crowley, with another sigh and shake of his head. Black sheer fabric covered his eyes. Underneath it, they glowed. “And They’ve gotten carried away with the smiting.”

The following quiet was more melancholy than peaceful, as both the angel and the demon finished off their first glasses and Crowley demanded another two for the both of them. The bartender turned to the liquor shelves, and the serpent pinched his glabella over the shiny leather of his masquerade.

“Heard this one’s getting more backlash than the Bradley-Martin.” remarked Crowley, gazing around at the well-attended ball. “Lots of people that have messy histories with Truman Capote, the guy in charge. What’s the name of that film he’s in again? _In Warm Blood?”_

“Cold.” corrected the angel.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyways-- sixteen thousand dollars. I don’t think anyone really cares for Capote. Bit of a egotist, in my opinion.”

“Why are you here, then? Meeting?”

Crowley shook his head. He didn’t answer the question.

Before Aziraphale could ask, his eyes caught sight of something -- someone? -- across the room, and he felt his blood run cold, his all-too-human heart coming to a stop in his chest. _He_ was the only one wearing color in the entire ballroom, and so he stuck out like a sore thumb. A pale, baby blue tuxedo to contrast dark eyes and a sharp jawline. Aziraphale squinted, and the familiar iridescent aura of a holy halo shone over his head. One of the heavenly hosts; an archangel. Aziraphale’s palms went clammy as he realized his situation.

They hadn’t forgotten him, apparently.

“Crowley,” He hissed. “Go. Run. Walk away, _now.”_

“What?” Crowley looked up from his second glass of alcohol. “Getting rid of me?”

“It’s _Gabriel.”_ pleaded Aziraphale, desperately. Crowley stiffened. “Please, do something. Anything. _Go.”_

There was a flash, and a huge black serpent -- _The_ Serpent -- was slinking away, full speed ahead, on the polished, thatch-style floor of the ballroom. He disappeared with a dangerous hiss.

Gabriel was, surprisingly, unaccompanied. He approached the angel of the Eastern Gate at a casual, steady walk. Eyes from all around were on him, the only creature in the entirety of the Plaza Hotel wearing anything other than black or white or both. His smile blinded the bartender. Almost. But not quite.

“Aziraphale.” He greeted the angel neutrally. The crowd had moved on, a few of the guests still mumbling about who the man who seemingly didn’t believe in dress codes was.

Aziraphale smiled, bowed his head at the archangel. “Gabriel. It is nice to see you.”

“I’m sure it is.” There it was: that condescending smirk that Aziraphale tried so very hard to convince himself wasn’t condescending at all. “Nice of you to join us. Sorry to take up your busy schedule.”

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together. “I’ve been here since they opened the doors to the gue--”

“I’m here to talk to you about some concerns we’ve got Upstairs.” said Gabriel, plowing forward. “We’ve noticed, since about the mid-nineteenth century, you’ve begun neglecting some of your angelic duties and responsibilities. We’ve supplied you with a centurial docket, but our supervisors insist that you’ve been getting careless with your _miracling habits.”_

“Well, I believe--”

“Our supervisors also think you’re getting a bit too chummy with the humans.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Aziraphale, your job is to keep tabs on the humans, and keep the Enemy’s representative in check, do you understand? We have a War to win. The Big One.”

“Yes, well, I think--”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, Aziraphale.” Gabriel seethed, eyes burning dangerously. “What matters is that you do what is asked of you. If you disobey, and our plans fall through because of you, it will be your head.”

There was a painful silence.

“Do you understand, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Gabriel. Sir.”

“Good.” A pause. “Well, I’m off. Always a good time, seeing you, Azzy. Catch you later, or… whatever it is these idiots say. Nice mask, looks great on you. Anyway. _Adios. Auf Wiedersehen. Au revoir.”_

He strolled away, miracling himself out of the Plaza Hotel as he reached the exit. Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to either side of him, searching for a serpent in a devil masquerade, or perhaps any agents of Heaven or Hell who might have been spying on them from a distance.

It was when he heard a loud, feminine cry of _”Snake!”_ from across the ballroom that Aziraphale’s heart sank. Crowley had escaped, but the angel still had yet to get himself a dance.

 

_The Surrealist Ball, Paris, 1972_

“Surrealist” was most definitely the proper word for it.

Crowley had been quite impressed with himself for his costume. His deep-green, velvet tuxedo complimented a thin masquerade of the same color. Traces of threaded gold encircled his reptilian eyes, which simply looked like a part of the mask itself (he never could find a way to explain how he blinked with the mask on). Black jewels had been pressed to his cheekbones. Every guest he had spoken to so far that evening had asked him who his makeup artist was, and how they had accomplished that complex _scale effect_ that covered every inch of his skin.

He’d just winked, and they’d all forgotten about it.

 _Everyone_ had been impressed by Aziraphale’s set of _angel wings_ that seemed to be weightless on his back. They looked like real feathers. Though, as one guest had pointed out, they did seem to shed quite often, and, based on historical artwork, weren’t they a bit too messy to be angelic wings?

As much as Aziraphale would have liked to explain that no, it was simply a common misconception that angelic wings were always perfectly groomed and rarely shed their feathers, his better judgement told him that perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. Instead, he laughed off the comment and adjusted the arms of his traditional white-gold toga.

For the first time ever, the two of them ran into each other on the actual dance floor, rather than hiding by the bar waiting for the evening to end. Crowley broke into a smile.

“Shameless bastard,” He snorted, looking up at the wings. “You know someone’ll notice.”

“I’m not the one with scales all over him.” sniffed Aziraphale, but his frown didn’t last for particularly long. “Your eyes.” He said, cheerfully. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

“No one’ll notice _that.”_ Crowley said. “I don’t need to blink.”

They stood awkwardly in the sea of dancing, waltzing celebrities and upper-class Parisians, staring around at the strange and peculiar decorations of the evening. Eventually, after over half a century of waiting, Aziraphale looked up with a smile, and raised his eyebrows. Crowley looked back at him.

He grinned. “Care to dance, Angel?”

Aziraphale returned his look. “I’d love to.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, feigning innocence. “What about the guests?”

“It’s a surrealist ball,” said Aziraphale. “It won’t be the strangest thing they’ve seen all night. It’s just a simple dance, anyways.”

“And…?” Crowley looked upward.

Aziraphale gave a small smile. “People are afraid of things they don’t understand. Not just humans. I’d like to think everyone’s getting better.” He paused. “That includes myself.”

“Besides,” said the angel. “I’m here by choice, not for a meeting. Aren’t you?”

“No meeting.”

Aziraphale smirked. “You came to see me, you old serpent.”

Crowley only shrugged and took the angel’s hand, the other looping just underneath the array of feathers belonging to Aziraphale’s wings. As the angel placed a hand on the serpent’s shoulder, the band’s music drifted through the air and they fell eventually in time with the rhythm of the other dancers, the idle chatter of the room slowly turning into white noise. The two of them were spared any demeaning glances; and, if there were any, neither of them cared enough to notice. Aziraphale’s heart soared.

“Say, do you remember that cafe we went to in Paris?”

“What, for crepes?” The tiniest smile played off the serpent’s lips. “Back during the Reign of Terror, when I had to save your head from making enemies with your shoulders?”

“That’s the one.”

“How could I forget?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Have you been there since?”

“Think it was destroyed.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Pity.”

“If you want crepes, Angel,” said Crowley. “Then I’m sure we can find some. We’re in bloody France.”

“That would be lovely.”

“It’s a date, then.”

They smiled, and fell both into silence and back into the mesmerizing rhythm of the waltz.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I really didn't think I was gonna write another for these two bUT HERE WE ARE.
> 
> The whole "list" aspect of this fic is shamelessly inspired by a couple beautiful oneshots I read of these two, which you can most likely find in my bookmarks. I thought the ball/dance idea would be a cool thing to try out.  
> I had,, way,, too,, much,, fun researching the five different famous balls they attend in this oneshot. Most of my info was derived from a couple articles I found, but for the tinier stuff on one or two I betrayed the writer's etiquette and used Wikipedia. Forgive me.  
> (Also, as a side note, the bit about them looking like spies constantly ready to thwart each other's plans is a reference to that old show MadTV I remember watching when I was littler, with their little "Spy vs Spy" skits. For reference, see:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onR7PD3Grc0)
> 
> These ineffable husbands are slowly taking over my life and I'm perfectly fine with it. I really enjoyed thinking up the headcanons in this oneshot.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and please don't hesitate to leave any comments. Comments of all kinds make me incredibly happy.


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